Why do you sing just to be heard,
but grow hoarse
the moment the light finds you?
Why do I forget—
if you see me,
you see me:
all my pain,
my not-enough,
my vine-wrapped heart
untended for years.
You glance my way—
finally—
as if now
I am worth acknowledging.
Because I hold something
they want.
So I become a mirror.
A model.
A hope they can borrow.
But mirrors rust.
And soon,
the shine is gone.
I want to be seen—
but I flinch.
Each step uncertain.
Will I be devoured
by sharp-toothed stares?
Tongues slicing
on the flavor of my flaws?
Why do I really want to be seen?
Have I even asked myself that?
Maybe—
when I was a child,
attention made me brave.
Maybe—
when I handed my heart
to a good friend,
and she held it,
I knew what it meant
to be heard
for simply being me.
But left alone—
I learned this:
we all want to be seen,
so none of us
really see each other.
Too many mirrors.
Too much cracked glass.
So why do I still ache
to be visible?
Maybe…
I just want
to be held—
even if I shatter
in someone’s hands.
J.N. Rose 